I am ironing the dress in which I ran from the prom/ I am ironing my favorite dresses of long ago/ I am ironing the dresses I did not have/ and the ones that I did have, stitched so finely of fog/ I am ironing the dress of water in which I met you/ I am ironing our tablecloth of sun and our coverlet of moon/ I am ironing the sky/ I am folding the clouds like linen/ I am ironing smoke

I am ironing sad foreheads and deep wrinkles of despair/ I am ironing sackcloth/ I am ironing bandages/ I am ironing huge damp piles of worries/ I am smoothing and patting and folding and hanging over chairs to air out and dry/ I am ironing the tiniest things but for whom or for what I cannot imagine/ I am ironing my shadow which is ironing me.

–“Woman Ironing” by Olga Cabral